Better
by Superbly Mundane
Summary: Sherlock receives some bad news. John is there for him. Family death.


**AN: Geez okay first one of these Author's Notes things, this is a bad idea, I'm rambling already where did all those commas come from where did they go help this should be the only one of these I ever do ahhhhhhhhhh**

**Okay so disclaimer: I will tell you RIGHT NOW that I have only read a portion of the original stories so my Holmes Family Knowledge is extremely limited. This was based on (or, inspired by?) the beginning of "The Copper Beeches," where Holmes actually _repeats himself_ to say that 'no sister of his should ever have accepted such a situation.' It stuck with me. Was it just a manner of speech? What if there was a Holmes sister..?**

**And so my mind poked at the notion and it wriggled a bit and I decided it was worth exploring. However, one of the things I hate in fan-fiction, and thus am extremely paranoid about, is OC usage. The only solution I could think of was to do our collective favorite thing and make our boys miserable. So I did. I wrote this in one setting and all of my proof-readers somehow fell off the face of the earth and I'm rubbish at editing my own stuff (I'm not a writer and hate everything I do and am quite miserable posting this, really I am), so I apologize in advance for: terrible writing, no organization, probably much more gay than I intended (not that I mind but some people do), logical word choice taking a flying leap through the window in favor of Author Shamelessly Feelingsing And Being A Terrible Sap. Also probably poor grammar, misspelling, ruining beloved characters, and so on. Lemme know if it's my lack of self-confidence talking.**

**Happy birthday.**

* * *

><p>The first thing John noticed was the lack of foul odors as he ascended the stairs to 221b, shopping in hand. The second thing was the silence as he opened the door, budging it open with his hip while he redistributed the bags and his keys. Letting the keys fall from his mouth to the basket that had thankfully stayed by the door, he looked into the sitting room on his way to the kitchen and saw the source of the silence: both Holmes brothers were present, Mycroft sitting tensely in John's chair, warily watching Sherlock who was curled up on the couch as far from Mycroft as possible. This was not their usual silent battle of wills; something was wrong. Mycroft glanced just barely at John as he slid through to the kitchen, and John noticed something he couldn't quite identify in his eyes.<p>

The fifth thing he noticed was that the kitchen table was cleared for the first time he could remember. Then, that everything from the table now resided in a broken heap next to it, like they'd been flung off in some sort of fit. Finally, he noticed what could only be the source of all the oddities in the center of the kitchen table as he set down the shopping.

A single letter, smoothly cut open, addressed to Sherlock from 'Mummy.'

John dared not read the contents of the letter. He forced himself not to steal glances as he put away the shopping. Eventually, after he'd put the kettle on for Mycroft (assuming he would want tea), he heard the familiar creak of his chair as Mycroft stood, took a few steps, paused, and came into the kitchen. He didn't say a word until John turned to him, then nodded to the letter on the table.

"Have you read it?" John shook his head. "Please do. You must understand. Do keep an eye on him." Even in his clearly agitated state, Mycroft spoke primarily in orders.

"Won't you stay for tea? I've got the kettle on," John offered. The older Holmes brother shook his head just slightly.

"I really wish I could, Dr. Watson, but I'm afraid I've other engagements. Good luck." He nodded again to the letter and departed.

Immediately John picked it up and read. Everything made sense now, and he really wished it didn't.

Sherlock had started plucking absently at his violin, completely blank, before John composed himself enough to check on him.

"Never mentioned you had a sister," he said, dropping himself into his chair after depositing a tea on the coffee table for Sherlock.

"I don't mention a lot of things," he said flatly. "I'd never have mentioned Mycroft if I could help it."

"True." John sighed. "It's just…"

"Just what, John? Finish your sentence!" Sherlock snapped, plucking a particularly disharmonious chord.

"It's just, this would be a lot easier if I knew anything about her." The ugly chord repeated.

"Easier for whom, John? She was _my_ sister, not yours.

"But—"

"But nothing. It's too late now. It's over."

"It's never over."

"What do _you_ know?"

John just stared at the angry, hurt, completely lost man huddled on the couch facing away from him, unable to see the knowing, weary expression on the doctor's face.

"It's never over, Sherlock."

They sat in silence for a long while. Sherlock all but threw his violin on the floor, then pulled his housecoat even tighter around himself, curling up as much as possible and turning so he faced the back of the couch. John sipped absently at his tea, thinking back to all the times he'd been Sherlock right now and how he still had no idea how to make it all better for his friend. He knew it was impossible, but he wanted to so badly.

"I knew this would happen." The silence seemed to be working, so John just listened. "It was inevitable. I accepted the truth years ago. Statistics don't lie." Sherlock exhaled, breath shaky despite himself. "Mycroft and I—" For the first time in John's memory, Sherlock spoke of his brother with love, not disdain. "—couldn't protect her forever, I knew that, not when she was never all there to protect. Not after father…" He stopped abruptly. He seemed to shrink in on himself, and John knew he ahd said everything he was going to.

He looked helplessly on as the curled up figure of Sherlock Holmes, the most incredible man he had and ever would meet, was transformed before his eyes into that of a small boy, huddled into himself for protection against the whole world. But then, just as quickly, the image faded and he again saw his friend, mourning and fuming silently, trying to reign it all in. John was only too familiar with the desire to tuck the nastiness neatly away somewhere, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Sherlock would do whatever he could to do just that, to prove his self-declared heartlessness to the world and, John suspected, to himself. He could feel Sherlock retreating into himself, and suddenly the three meters between John's chair and Sherlock's nest felt like a thousand meters or more, and his heart broke from it. He crossed the few short steps, resting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, needing to tell Sherlock that he was there, and was mildly surprised to find that shoulder shaking. He sat – perched, more like – on the edge of the couch and stroked that shoulder with all the affirmation he could muster. Yes, Sherlock hurt. Yes, he couldn't brush this one under the sociopathic rug and be rid of it. Yes, it would probably hurt for a long time. Yes, it was absolutely okay to feel this way.

John remembered being on the receiving end of a similar back rub from his mother when he was eight, after his dog had been run over and he'd been inconsolable. He remembered desperately needing that back rub when the cancer had taken her. He remembered the strained facsimiles his troop had exchanged after just a week on the front lines, after Jameson had run off ahead and discovered the landmine. He was grateful that he could be here to provide it for Sherlock when he knew he'd want it most. Even though Sherlock kept shaking, he didn't shrug John off, which was as good as a request to continue.

"I'm here, Sherlock," he all but whispered, feeling the need to say at least something but not wanting to startle him. "You're not alone. I'm here."

John wasn't sure what he'd expected. He didn't know if he'd expected anything outright, which made it all the more surprising when Sherlock sat up, more like rolled from laying to sitting up, and fell against John, allowing the doctor to shift onto the couch proper so as not to drop him, and to wrap both arms around him, allowing John's warmth to seep into him as the much-needed hug held him until whenever Sherlock would decide he was done. John didn't care if that was minutes, months, or years. As long as his friend needed him, he would be there.


End file.
